


Another

by helloshepard



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Pre-Relationship, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:23:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4093903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloshepard/pseuds/helloshepard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s certain he can do it. He will not invade it, but the thought of touching his mind to hers allures him in a way he hadn’t thought possible. It is easier than making a blanket come to him. But he will not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Another

**Author's Note:**

> Started replaying KOTOR 1/2 this week, and ah yes. These two.

He welcomes any excuse to touch her.

Those chances come more often than one might think. She is comfortable with him—more comfortable than he feels she should be. After all, she knows the Truth about him, if not the whole Truth, then most of it. The important parts, anyway.

It comes in the form of mundane, harmless actions. Handing her a cup of caffa. Dealing the pazaak deck. Draping a blanket over her shoulders when she falls asleep in the copilot’s chair.

And so on.

Despite her exile (or perhaps because of it) Meetra Surik leans towards contact. Not at first, of course. Atton remembered how she had shied away from any casual contact for the first week. It was the same with all of them. Except Kreia—Atton suspects Surik is the only one allowed to touch the old woman.

She told him the Force is strong in him, and he believed her—and still does. They meditate, so close their knees touch and as he raises his hand, his fingers brush hers. She takes Kreia’s subsequent chiding well. Atton knows Kreia knows how he feels. It seems _everyone_ on this ship knows how he feels.

Except her.

The persistent, niggling _what-if_ thought gets stronger every day. _If_ they survive this impossible mission, _if_ she doesn’t go back to the Jedi, then maybe…

The thought has him queasy with nerves and puts the smallest of smiles on his face.

Meetra Surik sighs.

It’s late. According to Korriban, it was the middle of the night, and Surik had been out until fifteen minutes ago.

He had been sitting at the table, dealing cards to himself, trying not to make it so obvious he was waiting for her to get back. He was waiting up for the droids, he would’ve said. Or he just couldn’t sleep.

No one on the ship kept a normal routine, anyway. Even now, Bao-Dur is awake and working with T3, taking apart the engine and removing dead mynock from its components.

She is curled up against his side. Initially it had been an exasperated forehead on his shoulder, but after a few moments the warm pressure against his shoulder and side increased as she leaned in closer.

He’s not sure what she’s doing, exactly. He can feel her mind sleepily touch the edge of his, drifting away after a moment, only to return.

It bothers him less than he thinks it should. She’s not trying to read his mind, but even the _suggestion_ of a Force-user getting anywhere near his head is usually enough to have him on high alert.

Were Kreia not on board, Atton might have lowered his mental shields for a moment. The thought of that woman and her _plans_ has him glaring at the rusted floor panels, and it’s not until the exile shifts position, dropping her head into his lap, that he takes a deep breath and lets it out in a smooth, practiced, exhale.

The _Ebon Hawk’s_ heating systems don’t work. It’s constantly cold, and Atton can’t help but shiver as the vents click and cold air puffs out.

With unsure clumsiness, he pulls off his jacket and tucks it around the exile. There’s a thermal blanket on the opposite seat. Warm, but far out of reach.

He can use the Force, now.

Stretching out his hand, he summons every ounce of willpower he can muster.

The blanket falls to the floor.

Atton sighs.

Surik stirs, and immediately he cringes.

“What’re you doing?” Her voice is soft. Confused.

The part of him Atton wants **dead** says this is always the prime time to start working a Jedi. In the perfect moments between sleep and full alertness, they are open. Open to suggestion. Open to pain.

“Atton?” She’s struggling to sit up, now, but the few minutes of sleep have taken their toll. Force, she must be tired. “What’s wrong?”

Gently, her mind touches his, and Atton realizes she’s not referring to the blanket—not now, at least.

He forces a grin onto his face and shakes his head.

“Nothing important. Thought I’d practice some Jedi parlor tricks while you had me stuck here. Not as easy as it seemed.”

She nods, briefly opening one eye to survey their surroundings.

Immediately, the blanket zooms over to them. She hands it to him and he takes it, not sure whether he’s annoyed or grateful.

Without another word her eyes are closed and she’s asleep again. He briefly considers taking his jacket and giving _her_ the blanket, but one attempt at pulling it off voids _that_ plan: she’s got hold of the fabric and he’s not going to risk waking her again.

Atton unfolds the blanket. It’s larger than he expected, and he leans forward to tuck it behind his shoulders and leave the rest over Meetra’s torso.

The thought of touching _her_ mind occurs to him. Hers is a quiet mind. Guarded, though he knows she’s always thinking. Worrying, mostly, and sometimes it comes to the surface like a geyser kept under pressure too long.

He’s certain he can do it. He will not invade it, but the thought of _touching_ his mind to hers allures him in a way he hadn’t thought possible. It is easier than making a blanket come to him.

But he will not.

Another night, perhaps.


End file.
